there might be something to this patience thing
by unison raid
Summary: Bazz-B and Jugram Haschwalth have never had the best track record of keeping in touch. /modern au. oneshot.


There's something in the clearing; he can't quite make out what it is from the opposite side of the tree he's sitting in, so Buzzard Black climbs up a branch, careful not to knock his helmet off of his head.

With practiced ease, he moves around the tree before plopping down on a branch that gives him an unobstructed view of the clearing.

What he sees kind of disappoints him.

It's a cardboard box, propped up on end with a stick. There's a carrot in the middle, sitting on the ground, like it's going to lure something in. If he tilts his head just right, he can catch the glint of something like fishing line, tied onto the stick.

Bazz-B wrinkles his nose and pushes his back against the trunk of the tree he's sitting in, wondering what kind of idiot thinks that's going to work. His legs are swinging in the air on either side of the thick branch supporting his weight, plastic bow and arrow digging into his back.

It's a wait that seems like eternity but is really only three minutes.

A rabbit makes its way out of the underbrush and actually goes for the carrot; Bazz-B can't quite believe his eyes-how could a rabbit fall for something that stupid?

When the small brown rabbit is most of the way under the box, happily munching on a carrot, Bazz-B sees the fishing line jerk; the stick gets hauled backward, and the box falls down.

The rabbit, on the other hand, escapes.

A kid comes out of the bushes a few moments later, fishing string in his hand and a slightly dejected look on his face.

Bazz-B jumps out of the tree, fearless, landing firmly on his feet six meterst below. His helmet, on the other hand, slides down into his eyes and obscures most of his vision to a thin, bright line of greens and browns.

The other kid jumps, startled, drawing his hands to his chest and his eyes wide as a deer's.

Bazz ignores the frightened and startled look.

"You're a loser," he snorts, putting his hands on his hips.

The other boy doesn't say anything; simply stares at him with a straight face and eyes that show less emotion than a corpse.

"Everyone knows that that's only how you catch a rabbit in cartoons. And EVERYONE knows that cartoons aren't real! Of course it wasn't going to work!"

The other boy just keeps staring at him; it's actually kind of weirding him out.

"I'm Buzzard Black," he announces in a voice that makes it seem like a capital offence to have not heard it before, mostly just to break the ice-the kid probably wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, right? And if you knew someone's name, they weren't technically a stranger.

"Jugram Haschwalth," the other child supplies after a moment, quieter—like it's normal not to have heard his name (but there's a spark in his eyes, one that will burn brighter and brighter before they're through).

It's friendship, or something like it (Bazz-B isn't sure; he's never had a friend before).

It's mid-summer; Bazz-B has been lying on his stomach in the clearing, hands fisted under his chin and eyes wide open. He's waiting for Jugo, like he has every summer day since they were six.

He's eleven now, and he's pretty sure he knows everything he ever needs to know to get through life.

Except for, you know, what to do when your best friend in the entire world is late while he's normally very punctual.

Which is weird, since they've spent pretty much every single day since they've met together. Always outside, always getting into some kind of trouble, always catching and releasing rabbits and fish and bugs. They've played at pirate, they've played at kings. Wherever one went, the other was not far behind.

Finally, Bazz-B decides that enough is enough; it's time to be a man of action.

He goes to Jugo's Uncle's, but he doesn't go up the drive.

The house is dark, even in the summer.

So he goes home, intent on waiting for Jugo again the next day.

But he doesn't show up then, either.

Or the day after that.

Or the next day.

Eventually, he just gives up; Jugo's house goes up for sale, and a bitterness worms its way into his chest and takes root.

By the time Buzzard Black reaches seventeen, he's grown.

He hasn't matured a lot, but he's grown. He's grown taller, he's grown in on himself and out on the world.

He hasn't seen or heard of Jugram Haschwalth in six years (but that doesn't mean he hasn't thought about him).

High School is not the best place for Bazz-B.

His personality doesn't allow him to make many friends-none at all, in fact-and he doesn't quite have the patience needed for most of his classes.

It's a good day if he can get through the school day without pacing, and an even better one if he can get off of the school grounds without getting into a disagreement with one of his peers.

He's only paying attention now because there's a new student who looks a lot like one Jugram Haschwalth. An uncanny amount, actually.

There's no way that can actually be him, though, right?

But it is, and he can't actually deny it now. Not when Jugram is in the desk next to him, eyes affixed to the front of the room almost like he's trying pointedly not to look at Bazz.

Fuckin' asshole.

But he can't keep his eyes off of Jugram for the rest of the class, trying to memorize the way he looks now since he can hardly recall what he looked like back then.

The bell rings and it startles Bazz; he turns to snarl at Jugram, ask him anything, but he's gone.

Angrily, Bazz snags his bag off of the back of the chair and storms out of the room.

It takes him a week and some desperate measures to even get Jugram to look at him. They only share one class and a lunch hour, and it's hard to corner him in both.

It's only when Jugo makes the mistake of sitting in front of him one day that he gets his chance.

Bazz hauls every pen and pencil and eraser out of his bag, taking full advantage of the opportunity.

He spends the class launching them at Jugo's head, quite pleased with himself when nearly all of them make their mark.

Six pencils, two pens and an eraser into his assault, Jugo finally turns around with one delicate eyebrow raised. Bazz grins at him toothily, more predator than person.

Jugram's jaw is tight when he turns back around.

Bazz starts throwing pens again, six minutes later.

He doesn't leave quickly when the bell rings, not the way Jugo goes tearing out of the room gracefully. He doesn't stop to pick up his pens and pencils, though-not like he actually uses them.

Bazz is very surprised, however, when Jugo corners him at lunch.

He doesn't let it show, though, especially since he's in the middle of eating the most floppy, cardboard-ish pierce of pizza he's ever had the displeasure of eating.

"Whaddya want?" he demands instead around a mouthful of pizza. Jugram doesn't seem phased by his poor manners-like he was still used to them, even after all this time apart.

"What is your problem?" Jugram asks back. Bazz-B realizes in that moment that Jugram has grown, too-he certainly doesn't act like the loser little kid he met in the woods.

He stands straight now, taller, like he's been filled with self-importance and courage.

Bazz can see, though, in the way that Jugo's index finger keeps twitching that he really hasn't changed at all.

Languidly, Bazz shrugs, taking up much more space at his table than he needs to. He likes that he has his own table in the cafeteria, likes that no one tries to sit with him. He can get by without friends, he can get by just fine-

But this is Jugram, his first friend. His only friend, ever, really.

"My best friend left me without an explanation when I was eleven?" he offers up sarcastically, an attempt at a barb that's meant to hit deep.

Jugram folds himself into a chair across from him at the table, hands in his lap, but he doesn't show what the words might have done to him.

Bazz could care less, honestly.

"I'm back now," is all Jugo says after a moment.

Bazz offers him the other disgusting slice of pizza, and Jugo accepts.

It's not friendship, exactly—not anymore, not after all of the years that have passed. But it is something, and Bazz-B is going to hold onto it with both hands and his teeth locked and he's not going to let go.

It's mid-December, and then cold air is wrapping itself around his body like a malevolent lover, permeating through his jeans and thick winter jacket.

The alcohol in his system helps dull it to the point he doesn't feel it.

Jugs is walking down the middle of the street with him, hands in his pockets and thick scarf around his neck. Bazz isn't entirely sure if Jugo is intoxicated or not; he hadn't paid much attention to what his friend was consuming.

Clumsily, he fishes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, a bad habit he started when he was fifteen and hasn't tried to shake.

Bazz-B smacks the butt of the pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand, breathing out; his breath condenses on the night air, glowing in the street lights.

He feels invincible.

It doesn't occur to him that it's just the alcohol talking.

The pack is opened; Bazz nearly spills half of the cigarettes on the sidewalk before he can get one in his hand. It's a fight to put the pack back in his pocket and the cancer stick in his mouth simultaneously, but he manages it without falling over.

It helps that Jugram's hand is on his elbow the whole time, keeping him steady.

He is so close, and it strikes Bazz yet again that he is not the same loser of a kid he met in the forest clearing all those years ago.

"You're, like, the most gorgeous fucking person i've ever seen," he slurs, leaning into Jugram. "I didn't ap—appre—hic—realize it when we were, like, fuckin' kids or whatever. But holy shit."

Bazz-B isn't too sure if he does it on purpose, or if there's a gust of wind that pushes him forward, or if he swoons from his terrible alcohol tolerance, but-

His lips crash into Jugo's without warning.

There's nothing pretty or heart stopping about it—it's violent, all teeth and cold air, and his tongue is numbed by the booze he's consumed. All he can taste in his own mouth is whiskey and cigarettes, the tang of blood dull to his senses. His hands find their way around Jugram's wrists, holding onto them like a lifeline.

(He doesn't know if Jugram reciprocated or not—everything is hazy.)

Jugo rips his wrists out of Bazz's grip sharply and takes a step back, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He refuses to meet Bazz-B's gaze, breathing heavily.

Dazedly, Bazz-B appreciates the way the street light shines on Jugram's blond hair.

Jugram purses his lips, looks down the street in what Bazz hopes is the general direction of home.

"Let's get you home."

There's a tiny part of his brain that's hoping he doesn't remember this in the morning.

He remembers.

Oh, does he remember.

But Jugram greets him like nothing happened, but hands him a silver lighter a few days later, one that's sure to withstand an age.

And he's not too sure how he feels about that.

Jugram Haschwalth does it again.

Two days after graduation, Bazz-B strolls over to Jugo's apartment, leather jacket left at home as the days start to get warmer.

He bounds up the stairs to Jugo's apartment, pounds on the door., is only vaguely surprised when the scrawny kid that is Jugo's roommate opens the door.

"Jugram here?"

"Yeah, well, uh, funny thing—he moved out. In the middle of the night? I didn't even know he was gone until this morning when I found next month's rent and a letter thanking me! So-"

Bazz doesn't stick around to hear the rest—he's already heading down the stairs, wondering what the fuck is happening; where is Jugo?

He's checked the apartment and most of their haunts to no avail.

The next logical step, of course, it to call Jugo's phone.

Bazz-B hits his name methodically, only to be informed by a mechanical and overly exuberant voice that the number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.

He hangs up.

He tries again.

He's told that the number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.

He hangs up.

He tries again.

He's told-

Bazz-B lashes out and punches a brick wall to his left, snarling unintelligibly as he hangs up his phone and shoves it into his pocket.

His knuckles are scraped raw and busted open; there's blood on the wall, on his boots, dripping off of his skin and onto the pavement. The pain in his hand nearly eclipses the emotional pain he's trying to ignore.

He knows three fundamental things, now:

Brick walls and knuckles and anger do not mix.

That he is still hopelessly pining after his best friend.

And that he can never, ever rely on Jugram Haschwalth to stick around.

Buzzard Black breathes deep;

He starts all over again.

Two years.

He's spent the last two years trying to move forward with his life.

He's got a job—kind of—and he's got a sparsely furnished apartment he's barely making rent on. He's a regular at the pizza place, and he has his own table at a cramped cafe where they know his name and his order.

It's more than enough, most days.

He doesn't like to think about when it's not enough. When there's an emptiness clawing at the pits of his heart and his apartment feels too large for him and he feels too small for the world.

He doesn't like to think about one Jugram Haschwalth, either (he can't help but think about kissing him, but he's pretty sure that might have been the cause of him moving away again).

He doesn't like to think.

He's sitting at his regular table, legs stretched out in front of him. All of his attention is on his phone, looking over the cats he has amassed in an app.

He hearts more than sees someone take the seat across from him, and his temper starts to rise immediately. He's one of the few people actually in there, there's plenty of empty tables! Plenty of other places to sit! And can't they see he's busy, anyway, collecting cats?

Bazz-B looks up, ready to tear into whoever sat across from him.

He stops. Blinks.

It feels like someone's opened up a hole in his chest and shoveled in hot coals.

"What the fuck," he snarls, dropping his phone on the table. His other hand comes up and smacks his paper coffee cup over as he rises up and out of his chair, looming over the table.

Jugram Haschwalth catches it, look on his face as passive as ever, and sets it on the table before a drop can even be spilled.

"Good afternoon," the blond says glibly, taking a sip of his own coffee.

It could be that he's dreaming, but he's pretty sure he's not—especially since Jugo's not typically wearing much of anything in Bazz's dreams.

He doesn't bother with a greeting back.

"What? You think you can just come waltzing back here like you weren't gone?"

Jugo unfolds a napkin on his lap before he says anything. "What would be wrong if I thought that?"

"Everything," he snarls, hand practically becoming a claw around his cup.

"Why?" Bazz-B is reminded of something his fantasy Jugo is not—insufferable.

"You shut off your mother fucking phone, you moved in the middle of the night, you didn't tell anyone anything! I thought I was your fucking friend, Jugram. Do I even really know anything about you?"

Jugram at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable as Bazz-B unloads on him.

"I drink-"

"Americano's, yeah, I know." Bazz slumps back into his chair, swiping his phone up and off of the table as he does so. "And you like listening to the Clash even thought you would never admit it to anyone else, and you fell out of a tree when we were eight and you still have the scar on your right forearm. When you make toast it's more like warm bread and you had the chicken pox when we were seven. And you always wanted to be a Power Ranger—that was, like, your life goal."

"That's more than anyone else knows."

"Yeah, but that's it. I don't know why you keep disappearing, or what really happened to your uncle, what you do on your birthdays, or what you're doing for a living. I don't know what happened the first time you tried drinking, or if you've even experimented with drugs. I don't know a lot."

A beat more, which Bazz knows Jugo isn't going to fill before he asks, "How did you know I was at this cafe, anyway?"

A shrug. "I still follow you on twitter—your location service is on."

It's not a lull in the conversation as much as it is Bazz-B waiting for Jugram to keep talking—to say anything, really.

When he doesn't, Bazz-B stands up and leaves without saying a word.

"Maybe you should learn to be patient, Bazz." Jugram called out after him, only partially raising his voice—and his hopes. Buzzard Black would never learn patience.

"If my patience was a big as my dick, you'd never see me punch anyone out!" he yelled over his shoulder as he left.

Fuckin' bastard.

He honestly doesn't expect to see Jugram again.

Which is why he isn't too surprised when his table at the cafe the next afternoon is empty.

But five minutes into his coffee, Jugram breezes through the door, gets in line, and eventually sits down at Bazz's table.

Neither of them say anything.

He's there for a month.

Bazz sees him at the cafe daily, always just a few minutes behind him and seated at the same table across from him. They don't talk much, sometimes not at all, and that's fine. He can feel the camaraderie is still there, can feel them dipping back into a comfortable peace growing between them.

One of them always leaves before the other, no explanation offered or goodbye said. Bazz just figures that, when the day comes and Jugo doesn't show up for his Americano, it might hurt less.

Which is why it's pretty fishy when he stands to leave and exits the cafe, only to find Jugo right behind him. So he walks for a couple of blocks, half a step in front of Jugo, mind wondering what the hell is going on today.

He was pretty sure he wasn't giving off any vibes that said, follow me or lets go hang out somewhere else.

Bazz stops walking and turns around, just in front of an alleyway between a sex shop and a bodega to face Jugram. The blond stops walking, a full meter behind him with his hands in his pockets.

"Why are you following me on?" He's pretty sure Jugram knows that he doesn't mean on twitter.

"I'm leaving." It's heavy, like a stone in his pocket—or, you know, thrown directly at his head.

He knows it was inevitable, though. Jugram Haschwalth never stayed around for long.

"When?" Bazz-B is mostly resigned; he figured it was coming soon. But that didn't mean he had to like it, or even tolerate it.

He was pretty fucking pissed that it was happening, actually.

"I don't want you to leave again."

A beat, "I don't have much of a choice."

"You always have a choice," Bazz snarls, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Jugo's lapels. "You always have a fucking choice. That's the point of being human, Jugo! To fuck up, to make mistakes, and to make choices!"

Jugram glances over Bazz's shoulder. "I need to go."

He removes Bazz-B's hands from his coat, prying his fingers away. Bazz-B takes a step back, lifting his hands in the air in defeat.

Once Jugo tries to walk past him, on the other hand-

Bazz-B lets a fist fly and snarls when it connects firmly with Jugram's pretty face.

It feels pretty good, honestly. And it feels even better when Jugo stumbles to the side but keeps walking down the street, away from Bazz-B.

Bazz can feel the heft of the lighter—the lighter Jugo gave him—in his hand.

He throws the lighter at Jugram Haschwalth's retreating back, quite pleased at the noise it makes when it hits him.

He shows up at the coffee shop the next morning, patting himself down yet again for the lighter he had tossed back at Jugo's face before stomping off.

He feels like an idiot for doing it—for throwing the lighter, not punching his best friend and the love of his life. Because, honestly, he's still pretty certain that Jugram Haschwalth deserved that, of all things.

But that was a great lighter.

Bazz-B steps inside, glances toward his regular table.

It's empty; it's not like he expected anything else.

But, hey, at least he got a warning this time.

It doesn't change that much, though—it still hurts, knowing he just left again, not leaving a phone number or an email address or a mailing address or anything.

He orders his coffee, he sits at his table.

He carries on, just like he always has and always will.

Bazz-B feels on edge, though, like he has a reason to grit his teeth and feel anxious. So he pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pops one in his mouth with no intention of lighting it—the staff here understands that it calms him down, most of the time.

"You were right." Buzzard Black looks up, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, to find Jugo standing next to the table, two paper cups in his hands. There is a bruise on his cheek that Bazz is pretty sure matches his own fist, a blossoming painting of blues and greens and purples. There's a thick cut on his lip, too, more evidence of the violence he had been dealt.

"Huh?" The cigarette falls out of his mouth, onto the table; it rolls onto the floor, quiet, forgotten.

"I did have a choice." He makes a motion with one of his hands, and Bazz inclines his head for a moment. Jugo slides into the seat, handing a paper cup off to Bazz-B.

He takes it after a second, careful not to touch the other man's hand.

He isn't entirely sure what's going on.

The lighter is fished out of a pocket and set on the table like a peace offering.

"I did have a choice," Jugram repeats, both hands folded around his coffee cup. He's steadily avoiding Bazz-B's eyes, and all Bazz wants to yell is look at me.

But he doesn't. He stays quiet for once in his life, not letting the anger get the best of him (it's the biggest show of maturity he's ever committed to).

"I had a choice, but I didn't realize I had a choice until it was almost too late. And I still don't know if this is the right choice, even, but it feels more right than getting on that plane did. So—I'm sorry. For trying to leave again."

Bazz-B rolls his eyes. "Don't fucking apologize, Jugo. We're like way past apologies at this point."

Jugram makes a strangled noise as he nearly chokes on his coffee, but he keeps his mouth shut despite having a differing opinoin.

Bazz-B takes a deep breath; runs a hand through his mohawk.

"Just—friends aren't supposed to up and leave without warning. Once, maybe, is okay. It's forgivable. But two and a half fucking times, Jugram?"

"Two and a half?" Bazz-B snarls.

"This time is only a half because you gave me a five minute warning and then came back!"

Jugo waves a hand as if saying, schematics. Bazz-B barrels on.

"Friends are supposed to be there for you, y'know? Not just pop in and out of your life when it's convenient for them. They're supposed to, like, call and visit you when you're in the hospital, and be there when you want to get shitty pizza at three am on a Wednesday morning!"

"And if I don't want to be 'friends'?" Jugram's voice is snide, but Bazz-B can swear there's something beneath it that's leaning toward bitterness.

"Then why the fuck would you just show up here after I punched you in the face, offering coffee and a lighter as a peace offering and actually trying to explain some shit?"

Jugram looks uncomfortable for the umpteenth time that morning, something on his face between chagrin and embarrassment.

Buzzard Black stays quiet. His focus is on the man across from him, the man who he's been in love with since he was at least ten, the man who is pointedly focusing on his coffee cup and pretty much nothing else.

The man who is not answering his question.

"If you're so fucking good at articulating things, then why aren't you saying anything now?" Bazz-B finally snarls, half rising up out of his chair. The muscles in Jugram's jaw tighten and strain for a moment before relaxing.

Jugo stands quickly, knocking his chair back a couple centimeters. Bazz-B is pretty sure he's getting ready to fight again; he curls his own hands into fists, unafraid to punch his best friend's pretty face again.

He isn't entirely sure what in the world is going on when Jugram grabs him by the jacket and hauls him forward, across the table and into his personal space. He's ready for a verbal barrage, for spit landing on his face as Jugo speaks to him in a deadly tone.

He was not, however, ready for Jugo to kiss him.

This time it's softer. There's no stiffness, no surprise. No violence and no booze clouding his system.

It's so much better than the other lips he's tried to lose himself in through the years.

When Bazz pulls away, there's blood in his mouth and blood smeared on Jugo's lower lip. The blond is looking at him questioningly

He reaches out without thinking and tries to wipe the blood off of the blond man's face; Jugram winces and draws back. For a split second, Bazz-B feels a little guilty about punching him in the face the day before.

"That. That's what I want to be."

The still-functioning part of Bazz's mind can't process those words—he's too busy trying to figure out if he had just imagined Jugram Haschwalth kissing him or if it actually happened.

He stomps on his own foot and- yeah, okay. That definitely just happened.

"You are aware we can be friends and, uh, this simultaneously, right?" Jugram blinks at him owlishly, like the thought hadn't actually occurred to him.

"You are aware you have a whole cafe staring at you, right?" the barista yells at them.

They look toward the noise together and-

Yeah. Okay. The whole cafe is staring at them.

Out on the street, he and Jugram walk side by side with no real destination in mind, shoulders brushing.

Surprisingly, everything feels pretty normal.

"You know you're the only one I've ever kissed, right?"

Bazz snickers. "You're a fucking loser, Jugo."

* * *

 _written as a secret santa fic for 2015; cross posted on ao3._


End file.
